


Chuck vs. the Consulting Detective

by Reading Redhead (readingredhead)



Category: Chuck (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: help_pakistan, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-10
Updated: 2010-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-12 14:06:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readingredhead/pseuds/Reading%20Redhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck Bartowski gets sent to London to consult on a case that's got the world's best consulting detective stumped, and discovers some things about himself in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chuck vs. the Consulting Detective

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deastar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastar/gifts).



> Written for captanddeastar over on LJ for the help_pakistan fandom auction.
> 
> Also, I know my Britishisms, but this story is being told from the point of view of an American character, so don't freak out when he calls 221B Sherlock's "apartment"! :)

Chuck is still getting used to this whole “traveling the world as a spy” thing. When Beckman tells him she’s sending him to London to consult on a problem for British secret intelligence, he tries to act cool, but his brain immediately jumps from British secret intelligence to James Bond and from Bond to suave European men in designer suits seducing foreign bombshells.

It’s not a long jump from Bond babes to Chuck’s own feelings of social inadequacy, sitting like a ball of crumpled-up paper in some corner of his mind. He and Sarah are fighting – he can’t decide if it’s “again” or “still” – and as much as he’s intimidated by the concept of heading off on his own to a foreign country, he’s guiltily pleased to learn that she isn’t coming with him. Chuck means it when he tells her he loves her, but he also means it when he tells her she’s crazy. A little time off is just what he needs.

***

He’s met at Heathrow by a woman who refuses to give him her name and spends most of the cab ride from the airport reading messages on her Blackberry. Chuck asks where they’re going, but the woman just laughs – really, it’s almost a chuckle – and doesn’t answer. She doesn’t say another word to him, until the cab pulls to a stop on a street that looks to Chuck like any other and the woman points to the door marked “221B” and says, “Go in. He’s expecting you.”

Chuck has no idea who “he” is – Beckman had rolled her eyes when Chuck had asked her about his contact, and said that the contact preferred that Chuck not know – so as he enters through the door and climbs the stairs, all kinds of pictures suggest themselves to Chuck’s imagination.

The man who greets Chuck when he enters the second-floor room doesn’t look like any version of James Bond that Chuck’s ever seen. He’s tall and well-dressed, but comfortably middle-aged, and his three-piece suit speaks of the luxury of a desk job. Chuck eyes the man’s umbrella a little skeptically, uncertain whether it’s an affectation or some crazy spy gadget in disguise.

Before Chuck can introduce himself, he’s startled to hear a voice issue from the couch to one side of the room, where what he had pegged for a pile of laundry has suddenly transformed into a lanky man with shaggy dark hair. “Really, Mycroft,” the man says, addressing the suited agent, “an American?” The disdain in his voice is so great that Chuck almost overlooks the incongruity of his being dressed in a robe and pajamas. He takes a step forward, trying to get a better view of the man’s face –

– and the flash takes him by surprise – they always do – and while he’s still trying to process all the images the Intersect presents (women’s handwriting, an indoor swimming pool, a violin) he stumbles over the edge of the rug, loses his balance, and only keeps himself from falling by sheer force of will. He regains his balance, shakes his head to rid it of the afterimages, then squints at the man on the couch and says, “You’re Sherlock Holmes!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, steeples his fingers under his chin, and says, with the same disdain tinged with sarcasm, “Your powers of deduction are stunning.”

The other man – Mycroft – intervenes. “Now, Sherlock, behave yourself. As I have already told you, it is not deduction. Mr. Bartowski had no previous personal knowledge of you whatsoever. He was not informed of who he would be meeting with today. His – er, _talents_ – are such that an introduction of that sort would have been unnecessary.”

Chuck watches Sherlock’s right eyebrow raise, ever so slightly. A second later the gangly man pulls himself to a seated position on the couch and begins to stare at Chuck with the kind of clinical interest Chuck usually associates with scientists observing experimental subjects. “If we are to work together,” Sherlock pronounces, “there are a few things you will need to keep straight.  Most importantly, you must realize that you are _not_ a detective. You are a tool that it is convenient for me to use at present – ”

“Oh, shut it, Sherlock,” says another man’s voice, and Chuck turns around to see another man enter the room, wearing jeans and a sweater and an exasperated expression. It takes him only a moment for Chuck to recognize him from his flash on Sherlock. The man runs a hand through his short blond hair before saying to Chuck, “Don’t let him make you feel obligated to put up with this.”

“I, uh,” Chuck says, incredibly perplexed by how many strange new people he’s met in such a short span of time, “I mean – ”

“Don’t mind John,” Sherlock cuts in, “he’s just upset that he hasn’t been able to contribute to this case.”

John looks momentarily flustered, but fires back, “That’s rich, coming from you! You’re just as upset that you can’t crack it on your own – ”

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft cuts them off. They both stop talking, though they don’t stop glaring at each other, and Chuck wonders exactly how they know each other. “That will be enough. As much as I admire your landlady for putting up with the two of you, I’d hate for her to come up here to break up your little domestic.”

“It’s not – ” John starts to say, almost pleadingly, but Mycroft continues.

“This matter transcends mere national security,” he says, and Chuck feels like they’re all being chastised by a particularly peeved schoolteacher. “I hate to say this, but the future security of the world may depend upon your collective ability to act like mature adults.”

At this point, Chuck’s just incredibly confused, and afraid that it’s starting to show. “Can we back up a bit?” he asks in to the awkward silence. “What exactly am I here to do?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, twists his lips in what Chuck thinks might have been intended as a smile but comes out more like a grimace, and says, “I need your help.”

John smirks in Sherlock’s direction, then takes up a seat in an armchair. Chuck notices he walks with a slight limp, and wonders if he’s a spy, too.

“My brother has informed me of your – _ability_ ,” Sherlock says, speaking the last word with incredible disdain, “and has asked me to cooperate with you to discover any new leads. I will talk through the case with you. This” – he points to the man he addressed as John, now seated comfortably in the armchair – “is Dr. John Watson. He’ll be adding his insights to my report.”

“The hope,” Mycroft adds, “is that your abilities will turn up something we’ve overlooked.”

Chuck nods. It seems straightforward enough, but it’s all so much in so little time, and really his head’s reeling. He looks at each of the men in turn: Mycroft, Sherlock, John –

John looks back, and there’s something in his eyes that suggests he understands. He pushes himself up and out of the armchair and says, “I’m putting the kettle on. Chuck, do you want a cup of tea?”

For the first time since landing in this country, Chuck smiles. “That would be great,” he says.

***

Several hours and cups of tea later, Chuck still hasn’t flashed. Mycroft left a few hours before – an urgent call, he said – and now it’s just Chuck and Sherlock and John, and Chuck feels strangely out-of-place. Right now, he’s sitting in what he suspects is Sherlock’s armchair, across from John, while Sherlock (still in his robe) sprawls out on the couch, eyes closed. Chuck would think he was asleep, if it weren’t for the fact that he keeps talking.

“We’re missing something,” he says.

“We’ve been through everything.” John replies, trying to sound civil and almost succeeding. “Twice.”

“Obviously, it must not be _everything_.”

“How am I supposed to help you, then? You’re the one who said I wasn’t contributing – ”

It’s almost like they don’t remember Chuck’s there. Chuck’s fine with that, but still, it feels a little weird – intrusive may be a better word for it, now that he thinks about it. Sherlock and John might be fighting about the case, but it just seems so personal.

Then again, Chuck feels like he’s learned a lot of things about the both of them over the past few hours that his flashes just couldn’t have taught him, including his feeling that this is just how they work together. Earlier, when they were describing the case, they managed it in seemingly effortless tag-team approach, interrupting each other and talking over each other at times, but mostly keeping their frustration at each other from spilling over. It isn’t easy for either of them, but they (usually) manage to ignore each other’s faults and try to make things work.

Watching Sherlock and John dissect this case _together_ makes Chuck ache for the kind of partnership he never found a chance at – the thing that sometimes in the dark recesses of his mind he allows himself to imagine as a possibility. He doesn’t like to name it. The loss of it still hurts.

And yet – in a moment of honesty, he admits that if anyone he knows is really like Sherlock, it’s Bryce – Bryce, the one who went through the training and put in the effort to learn what he knows – knew – and the past tense still hurts. Bryce who’s got this suavity that Chuck will never grasp. His former friend would’ve been insulted by the comparison – after all, Bryce prided himself on his charm and social skills as much as on his intellectual aptitude, and he wouldn’t take it well to be compared to a self-proclaimed sociopath – but that doesn’t keep Chuck from thinking that the comparison is valid. Like Bryce, Sherlock has the uncanny ability to focus on a task and carry it out to fruition. Like Bryce, Sherlock is brilliant – absolutely and almost effortlessly brilliant.

Like Bryce, Sherlock has a strange ability to attract people to him – even if those people just want to stare, to examine him and figure out how he ticks – without even noticing he’s doing it. Chuck notices that even when he’s angry, John watches Sherlock with a look between puzzlement and wonder, as if he’s realized he’ll never understand him but he’s trying to figure him out anyway. He’s wearing that same look right now when he says, “Fine. You want a crazy new idea? What if you change the word order in the ransom note? Read it backwards, or something.”

Chuck looks over at Sherlock just in time to see the man’s usual expression of disdain turn into one of realization. “Chuck,” he says, sitting up, “does the name ‘Gustav Bering’ mean anything to you?”

The flash hits Chuck like a ton of bricks and he’s glad he’s sitting down this time because otherwise he probably would’ve fallen over. “How did you – ” he stammers, still recovering.

“Acrostic anagram,” Sherlock says smugly. “Take the first letter of every word in the note, rearrange them to form a name…”

Next to Chuck, John shakes his head, smiles, and says, “Brilliant.” The man’s gaze betrays a grudging admiration that Chuck finds disconcertingly familiar. He’s still getting over the flash, so it takes him a minute to draw the parallel, but then suddenly he understands – not just this, but _all_ of it – because he looked at Bryce that way once.

It’s only now that Bryce is gone that Chuck begins to wonder what he might have done if Bryce had ever looked back.

***

They solve the case. “Really,” Sherlock tells Mycroft, in a voice of bored condescension, “I don’t understand why we even needed the human computer to begin with. He’s almost as bad as John when it comes to deduction.”

Chuck winces, not because he’s personally insulted, but because he can tell that John is. There’s a slight tightening around the doctor’s mouth that Chuck knows all too well. He hates to admit it to himself, but he’s spent some long and lonely years in John’s shoes, and he can’t tell what good it can do to deny it anymore.

Chuck looks back over at Sherlock and Mycroft, who appear to have entered into a tight-lipped argument, ignoring the other men in the room entirely, and Chuck has another one of those realizations, like a flash but organic to his own way of thinking, not alien to his consciousness but part and parcel of it. And now he knows what he has to say.

“John?”

“Yes?”

Chuck feels reluctant to proceed, but that’s to be expected, because what he’s about to say is as much about himself as it is about John, and it’s something he’s never told another living soul. He’s only recently gotten around to telling himself. “Listen,” he says, trying to sound like the kind of person other people listen to, “don’t take this the wrong way or anything – but I’ve got to say something about you and Sherlock.” John’s lips begin to purse, and Chuck hurries on, knowing that if he doesn’t say it now he never will. “I’ve been watching the way the two of you are with each other, and there’s a good chance that I might be entirely wrong, because really, I’m not exactly the first person you’d want to talk to about relationships – in fact I’m probably not even the second – in fact, you’ve only just met me, I’m probably about to be incredibly rude and I should just stop now.” He looks at his hands, at the rug, at the patterned wallpaper (are those bullet holes?) – anywhere but at John. Why does he have to sound like such an idiot?

There’s silence for a while, and Chuck can’t help it, he’s never been good at awkward situations though you’d think otherwise considering all the practice he gets with them. He hazards a glance at John, and is more than a little surprised to see that intrigue is beginning to replace bafflement on the older man’s countenance. “Go on,” John says. “I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

His eyes are serious and Chuck wants nothing more than to look away from them, but he thinks that he’d want someone to look him in the eye if they said something like this to him, so he does his best to focus when he says, “I lived with this guy, back in college. A ton of people didn’t understand how we got along. They thought we were so different, but we always knew what we had in common. We never thought our friendship was strange. And that was all it was – friendship.” It’s strange and painful to say it, but it’s true. He shakes his head, hoping that maybe this time it’ll do the trick and shake out all those loose memories. It doesn’t. “Anyway,” Chuck continues, “Sherlock reminds me a bit of him. My friend – he had a habit of getting into things he shouldn’t have. Playing at games he didn’t quite understand. But the bastard always came out smiling in the end.”

John nods. “Does sound a bit like Sherlock.” He grins like he’s the one who’s just been complimented.

Chuck wants to smile with him, but that’s not what he’s here for. “But there’s a problem with knowing – _loving_ – people like my friend,” he says. “One day they’ll get in over their heads. One day, they won’t be there for you to come home to. Sometimes they just get bored, or complacent, or whatever, and they leave – but sometimes they die.” Chuck’s voice is so quiet now that it’s strange to hear himself speak. “They die too soon, and if you haven’t told them everything you need to tell them…then they’re just gone, and you’ll never know what they would’ve said back.”

There is silence between the two men for a moment, before John says, “Your friend. What was his name?”

Chuck closes his eyes, lets out a long sigh. “Bryce,” he says. “Bryce Larkin.”

For a brief moment, another hand pats his, and Chuck hears John’s voice say hesitantly, “I’m sure Bryce knew.”

Chuck’s inordinately comforted by the thought and the gesture, but he needs to make sure his message is clear, so he says, “The only way to be sure would have been to tell him.”

Chuck holds John’s gaze for a moment before the doctor’s eyes gravitate almost involuntarily across the room to focus on Sherlock.

***

Chuck doesn’t look at his cell phone again until he boards the plane that will take him back to Burbank, but when he pulls it out to switch it off for the duration of the flight, he sees that he’s got a single text from an unregistered number:

 _Thank you._

 _-SH_


End file.
